


Hook & Line

by menel



Series: When the Day is Short [4]
Category: Justified
Genre: Episode Tag, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dewey Crowe thinks he can make a fast getaway with half of Boyd's heroin shipment. Raylan has other ideas. </p><p>Blanket spoilers for Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hook & Line

**Author's Note:**

> Work has been brutal and _Justified_ is the main reason I'm keeping my head above water. Here's another coda to 5x10 Weight.

Tim is frying bacon by the time Raylan wanders into the kitchen. The cowboy doesn’t look one hundred percent put together yet and that knowledge gives Tim more satisfaction than it probably should. A slightly disheveled Raylan in the morning makes him appear more human and less like the mythic Western hero that he seems to be the rest of the time. 

Whether by design or not, Raylan left the duffel bag that he’d packed for his Florida trip on the first night that he’d stayed over at Tim’s place. It was convenient that he’d had fresh clothes to change into the following morning; just like this morning, he has his own clothes yet again to wear (and Tim approves of the casual Raylan look – the snug jeans that hug Raylan’s hips just right, the denim jacket and the black shirt). Tim’s beginning to wonder if Raylan’s laundry will somehow find its way into his hamper and the thought, surprisingly, doesn’t bother him. He recognizes how domestic the idea is and how quickly things are moving between them after their last night at a motel. Raylan hasn’t exactly moved in (and Tim isn’t about to offer either) but less than a week ago the image of Tim making breakfast for the two of them at his apartment would’ve been in the realm of pure fantasy. 

Raylan’s talking on his mobile when he enters and sits down at the kitchen table. He immediately slips into the patented Raylan sprawl, the relaxed slouch that occupies space but somehow also doesn’t. Tim turns the bacon over in the frying pan one last time before distributing the strips on the two plates. He’s already made scrambled eggs for both of them, as well as two slices of toast each. He brings the plates over to the table and places the other one in front of Raylan. He can tell that Raylan is at the tail end of his conversation. Sure enough, Raylan hangs up a moment later. 

“I’ll get the coffee,” he tells Tim, standing up in one smooth motion. 

Tim nods, settling into his seat and spearing one of the honey-cured bacon strips. Raylan comes back with two mugs of steaming black coffee. Naturally, they both take their coffee black. 

“Should’ve guessed that you’d be one of those big breakfast kind of guys,” Raylan comments, as he sits down again. 

“It’s the most important meal of the day,” Tim quips, digging into his eggs.

Raylan gives him a half smile, the one that’s soft around the edges. Tim’s been seeing that smile a lot more of late and ‘affectionate’ is the word that springs to his mind. That smile speaks volumes about an affection or fondness that Raylan hasn’t demonstrated before. It makes Tim wonder how long Raylan’s felt that way or if it’s just a recent development. 

“I s’ppose your idea of breakfast is black coffee,” Tim says, after swallowing a mouthful of eggs. 

“And the occasional piece of toast,” Raylan adds. As if proving his point, he butters his bread and takes a bite. 

“Who was on the phone?” Tim inquires. “Sounds like you’ve already got your work cut out for you today, Mr. Vacation.” 

“Courtesy call from the D.E.A.,” Raylan explains with a sardonic look. “Miller’s in the hospital.” 

“No shit,” Tim replies in surprise. “What happened?” 

“Broken pelvis. Got clipped by a tow truck last night.” 

Tim pauses, fork in midair as he looks at Raylan. “Why does that tow truck detail seem particularly important?” 

“Because when Miller and I were in Tennessee, I found out that one of Hot Rod’s so-called legitimate businesses was towing.” 

“And?” Tim prods. 

“And the towing was a front to transport drugs.” 

Tim laughs. “Old school,” he notes. 

“But still effective,” Raylan points out. 

Tim puts down his fork. “You think Miller was clipped by a tow truck transporting drugs from Mexico,” he supplies. “And this will somehow lead back to the Crowes and Boyd Crowder.” 

Raylan grins a wolfish grin. “I’m hopin’,” he admits. “The D.E.A.’s put out a bolo on the tow truck. I’ll check if the Staties got any hits after eating.” 

“Feel like some company?” 

Raylan appraises him. “Don’t you need to go to work?”

Tim shrugs. “Baby-sitting you is half the job.”

* * * * *

Raylan is right about the bolo, and not long after finishing breakfast they find themselves on a patch of winding road leading back to Harlan. The State Trooper escorting them seems amused that something as simple as an abandoned tow truck would draw out two Deputy U.S. Marshals.

“This truck mean something to you?” the trooper asks them. 

Tim lets Raylan answer since this case is Raylan’s pet project. 

“Uh, a little roadside set-to last night put a D.E.A. agent in hospital with a broken pelvis,” Raylan replies as the three of them wander down the side of the road, following the trajectory of the unhitched vehicle. “On account of getting clipped by a tow truck.” 

The trooper nods. “Well, the D.E.A.’s bolo came through ‘bout the same time I got flagged down by a coupla campers,” he volunteers. “Said they saw some fool out here trying to unhitch a car. Said he didn’t look right.” 

Tim can’t help but grin as he looks back at the truck. “Somebody had the bright idea of unhitching a car at the top of a hill,” he says, exchanging a look with Raylan. They both know this has Dewey Crowe written all over it. 

“There’s a big divot on the ground here where the car hit,” the trooper is saying, oblivious to the silent exchange between the two marshals. He turns back towards them. “Doesn’t look like you’re dealing with any kind of Einstein.” 

Raylan has stopped beside a rusted muffler on the side of the road, next to a jutting rock. Tim watches as the other man shifts the muffler with his foot. From where he’s standing, he can clearly see the fine lightly colored powder that isn’t dirt hidden underneath the muffler. The trooper can see it too. 

“Whatcha thinkin’?” the trooper asks Raylan. 

“Just tryin’ to imagine what my Einstein’s going to do with a carload of Mexican brown,” Raylan answers. 

Tim’s distracted from the conversation by the ringing of his phone. He reads the Chief’s name on the caller ID and steals himself for a quick word with the boss. By the time he gets off the phone, Raylan is waiting for him back at the town car. 

“Gotta check in at the office,” Tim tells him. 

“And leave me without a baby-sitter?” Raylan replies in mock horror, unlocking the car doors. “What if I run into some trouble?” 

“I’m sure you’ll just shoot your way out of it,” Tim says casually, getting into the passenger side of the car. He can feel Raylan smiling as the other man starts the engine.

* * * * *

Tim gets bogged down at the Marshal’s service fairly quickly, but Raylan calls a little later that morning to give him an update. After paying a visit to the Crowe headquarters (otherwise known as Audrey’s), the cowboy’s hit a bit of a dead end. Dewey Crowe was nowhere to be found, but Raylan’s consolation prize included confiscating a fake leather briefcase filled with funny money from Daryl Crowe Jr. (after conveniently thwacking Daryl on the head with said briefcase) and then leaving the funny money with the two whores he’d used in order to bait Dewey.

Dewey didn’t get that Raylan was offering him an out from Boyd, the Dixie mafia and his kin. 

Typical Dewey. 

Meanwhile, Tim is being true to his word back at the office. The D.E.A. has thrown a lot of resources into the wide dragnet cast by the State Troopers and Tim has been coordinating the efforts of all three agencies back at the Lexington courthouse. Art occasionally throws a suspicious look in his direction. Tim does his best not to flinch under Art’s knowing glare. Raylan may be on vacation, but the D.E.A. did officially request for his assistance so it’s not like Tim is covering for his partner or doing off-the-books work. In fact, the D.E.A. seemed mighty appreciative that the Marshals were taking Miller’s hit-and-run so seriously. It’s the kind of thing that builds good inter-agency trust and Art can’t grumble about that. That’s why Tim is on the phone now, giving Raylan an update about the latest roadblocks that have gone up. He’s efficient like that. 

“The only way he’s getting out is over us,” Raylan is saying. “And I don’t foresee Dewey owning a jet pack.” 

“Could be he’s just laying low,” Tim offers. “Waiting till the roadblocks go down.” 

“With that much Mexican brown?” Raylan’s laugh is low and warm over the phone. “Dewey don’t got that kind of patience. He’ll sell it and get out of dodge as soon as possible.” 

“You think Dewey Crowe’s got that much pull?” Tim knows he sounds doubtful. 

“I think _Dewey Crowe thinks_ he’s got that much pull.” 

Raylan’s voice is starting to sound like molasses in Tim’s ears but before he can shift their conversation onto filthier topics, the sound of another incoming call stops him. Raylan doesn’t put him on hold. He hears the click of being transferred to a conference call and a moment later an operator’s voice from Tramble is asking if Raylan will accept a collect call from the prison. Then Dickie Bennett is screeching for Raylan not to hang up on him and Tim is doing all he can to hold back his laughter. The conversation with Dickie Bennett is brief – very brief – and when the con hangs up, Raylan says to Tim: 

“Don’t s’ppose you feel like taking a drive down to Tramble?” 

“Sorry, partner,” Tim answers with too much glee. “This time you’re on your own.” 

There’s a long-suffering sigh and then Raylan tells him, “I’ll see you later.” 

“Be civil.” 

“Can’t guarantee that. He did string me up a tree.” 

“One of your finest moments, Marshal.” 

“You’re a ball of laughs, Gutterson.” 

When Raylan hangs up, it’s to the sound of Tim laughing in his ears.

* * * * *

Tim doesn’t hear from Raylan after that conversation and he gets swept up in his own business later that afternoon. He and Rachel end up on a wild goose chase of their own, but somehow Tim doesn’t think it’ll compare to whatever shit Raylan will end up telling him went down with Dewey Crowe later that night, because he fully expects Raylan to catch Dewey Crowe, or at the very least track down the shipment of heroin by the end of the day. Just like he fully expects to see Raylan that night, and the sheer amount of personal time they’ve been spending together since Raylan officially went on vacation should be worrying, except that it’s kinda nice too so Tim doesn’t think about it . . . much.

When Tim gets back to the office in the early evening, he’s mildly surprised to see Raylan standing in Art’s open doorway. Things appear to be civil enough between the two of them (Tim views that as progress), judging by the lack of shouting. Not that Art or Raylan are particularly vocal types. Well, Art’s occasionally in danger of popping a blood vessel, but his preferred method for dealing with Raylan of late is the cold shoulder or pure avoidance. Art’s generally _not_ dealing with Raylan at all. Apparently, that’s what Tim and Rachel are for. 

Tim walks over to his desk, catching Raylan’s eye when the other man turns around. He doesn’t make it a habit to eavesdrop on conversations but the name Alison Brander filters from Art’s office. The name registers with him. Alison Brander. He knows that she’s a social worker, Loretta’s social worker, in fact. By extension (and thanks to Raylan), she’s become Kendal Crowe’s social worker too. Tim knows more than that as well. He knows that Raylan had a thing with her. Short-lived, but a thing. Raylan’s never actually told him this but Tim met Alison once. She’s tall, blonde and leggy. One hundred per cent Raylan’s type. He tries not to dwell on her. Thinking about Alison leaves a sour taste in his mouth, which is silly ‘cos he never had any prior claim to Raylan before she came along. Hell, despite how things have changed between them, he _still_ doesn’t think he has any sort of claim on Raylan now. 

The man himself appears in front of Tim’s desk as Tim is sorting through the last of his paperwork. 

“Ready to get out of here?” 

“I just got back.” 

“What? Are you going to fill out a report?” 

“That’s what I caught you doing last night.” 

Raylan opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it just as abruptly. He looks amused. “Is that your way of saying I should get comfortable?” 

Tim is struck by how their positions have been reversed. Just last night Raylan had been at his desk while Tim had stood in front of him. He remembers how he’d almost given in to Raylan’s advances before Rachel had surprised them both. There’s no chance of fulfilling any sexual fantasies tonight, however. They’re hardly alone, and although the office has the low buzz of a day winding down, professionalism is the name of the game. 

Raylan nods and Tim knows that the other man is about to give in and sit down at his desk, probably to scrounge up some paperwork of his own. Tim leans forward and says, “I’ll just be a coupla minutes.” 

There’s a flash of the half-smile (the fond smile) that Tim saw at breakfast as Raylan opts to take the visitor’s chair at the side of Tim’s desk. 

“What’s the paperwork for?” Raylan asks. 

“Rachel and I busted a gambling scam earlier,” Tim replies, not all that keen to share details. He’s more interested in Raylan’s heroin run. “Did you catch up to Dewey Crowe?” 

“Not quite,” Raylan admits. “But I did recover the heroin.” 

“Dickie Bennett help with that?” 

Raylan laughs. “’Bout as far as I can throw a truck,” he replies. “No, but it was clear enough that Dewey contacted his old pal to find a dealer who could take the drugs off his hands. Poor Dewey didn’t realize that any dealer big enough to take that much heroin would lead back to Boyd.” 

“And the Crowes,” Tim adds. 

Raylan nods. “Basically sat around the rest of the afternoon waiting for one of the dipshits to return with the bricks.” 

“And here I thought your day would be more interesting than mine.” 

There’s a glint in Raylan’s eye when he asks, “You ever hear of the 21 foot rule?” 

Tim pauses in fixing his files and looks at Raylan. “’Course,” he answers. “It’s the Tueller drill.” 

Raylan’s expression tells Tim that he ought to elaborate and so he does. 

“The Tueller drill,” he repeats. “Designed by Sergeant Dennis Tueller of the Salt Lake Police Department.” Tim pauses. “Weren’t you stationed at Salt Lake?” 

“Go on,” Raylan urges, brushing the question aside. He’s clearly interested now. 

“Sergeant Tueller wondered how quickly an attacker with a knife could cover 21 feet to stab someone armed with a gun,” Tim explains. “So he had a bunch of volunteers try it out and he timed them at 1.5 seconds. His results were eventually published in a SWAT article. Y’see, in the Tueller scenario a defender with a gun has a dilemma. If they shoot too soon, they could be charged with murder. But if they wait too long, there’s a real chance of serious injury or even death. The Tueller experiments were all about quantifying the ‘danger zone,’ about determining when an attacker presented a clear threat.” 

“And you know all this because . . .” 

“Took it up as part of my S.W.A.T. training.” 

“Huh. How did those drills go?” 

“At 20 feet, the gun wielder could take down a charging knife attacker just as he reached the shooter. But anything less than 20 feet meant that someone was _always_ gonna get stabbed, even if the shooter managed to get off a round.” Tim’s leaning back in his chair now, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why are you asking me all this?” 

“Danny Crowe thought he’d try out the 21 foot rule on me tonight.” 

“Yeah? Seeing as you’re sitting here unscathed, looks like you disproved it.” 

“Didn’t have to actually.” 

“No?” 

“I’ll admit he got closer than I thought he would, but I didn’t have to shoot him. Was about to but he ended up stabbing himself.” 

“Tripped over his own feet in the dark?” 

“More like fell into the open grave of his dog and stabbed himself straight through his gullet.” 

“I take it back. You did have a more interesting day than me.” 

Raylan grins. “You about done here?” he says, motioning towards Tim’s semi-cluttered desk. 

Tim’s barely got a dent in what he was planning to do before Raylan arrived, but he knows when to admit defeat. Besides, he’s hungry. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” he sighs. 

The two of them stand up and Raylan waits while Tim puts on his jacket. Tim casts a glance over in Art’s direction. He can practically feel their boss watching them through his glass-walled office. (He’s right.) Art seems to be wearing a permanent frown these days, especially where Raylan is concerned and this evening is no exception. As the two of them leave the office, Tim knows Art’s disapproving stare is following them straight out the door. 

“Everything okay with Art?” he asks casually as the glass door of the Marshal’s service closes behind them. 

“Okay as can be, considering,” Raylan answers, pressing the ‘down’ button for the elevator. “Art even offered to take charge of a protection detail that I was prepared to do myself.” 

“Protection detail for whom?” 

“Alison Brander.” 

“The social worker?” 

Raylan looks at him in surprise. “You know her?” 

The elevator doors open and they walk inside. “Yeah, you introduced us once. At that bar?” Tim reminds him. “You came in with her while Rachel and I were having a drink?” 

“Right,” Raylan replies, but Tim can tell that the response is automatic. The cowboy is still trying to recall the incident. 

“I remember her ‘cos you were screwing her.” 

“What?” Now Raylan is looking at him in complete shock. 

Tim shrugs. “It was obvious,” he says. “Alison’s tall, blond, leggy. Totally your type.” Tim doesn’t know what Raylan’s about to say next, but he doesn’t give the other man a chance to say it. He brushes aside Raylan’s would-be response. “It don’t matter. We never talked about being . . .” Tim can’t quite say the word so he opts for another approach. “I just assumed you were seeing other people.” _Sleeping with them too_ , he mentally adds. 

Raylan really looks like he’s about to say something now (maybe even protest) but this time he’s prevented from speaking by the elevator doors opening and revealing . . . David Vasquez. 

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite Marshals,” the ADA says cheerily, smiling broadly as he joins them in the elevator. He ends up standing in between the two of them. 

“Is that sarcasm I hear, Vasquez?” Raylan inquires politely. 

“Why, no, Deputy Givens. It is not,” Vasquez answers charmingly. “I genuinely like Deputy Gutterson. And since neither I.A. nor my office has you currently under investigation – quite a feat, I might add – you’re not on my shit list either.” 

The conversation is starting to make Tim _feel_ uncomfortable even though he’s not giving any outward appearance of it. Both he and Raylan know that Raylan _should_ be under investigation, probably charged as an accessory to murder but that’s Art’s call. Fuck. 

“I hear you’re working with the D.E.A.,” Vasquez tells Raylan casually. “Don’t go pissing in someone else’s pond and making my life unnecessarily complicated. All right?” 

Raylan shakes his head. “They _asked_ for my assistance. No one’s pissing in anyone’s pond,” he assures the ADA. “It’s called inter-agency cooperation. I hear that’s a _good_ thing.” 

“That’s what they all say at the start,” Vasquez replies. The elevator doors open at his floor. Vasquez gets out, turning towards the two of them before walking away. “Have a good night,” he tells them. 

“You too, David,” Raylan replies just before the doors slide shut again. 

A silence descends upon them after Vasquez’s departure. Talk about awkward conversations, Tim thinks. First Alison Brander and then David Vasquez. 

There’s only one more floor until they hit the ground level. The doors slide open again and the two men walk out but are stopped by a security guard at the entrance to the courthouse. 

“Sorry, Marshals,” the man says apologetically. “Gotta ask you to take the back entrance. Getting this door fixed now that the day’s over.” 

“Not a problem, Dave,” Raylan says good-naturedly, and Tim is slightly impressed that Raylan remembers the guard’s name. 

The silence continues as they make their way towards the back of the building, but it’s shifted to something more familiar; a silence that isn’t filled with the tension that Tim thought might choke them both in the elevator. That is, until they step outside into the Lexington night and Raylan decides to break that silence. 

“I just assumed that it was okay to see other people,” Raylan states, picking up the previous conversation about Alison as though they hadn’t been interrupted by Vasquez and other, more insidious secrets. “You’re right. We didn’t talk about it and I assumed that you were seeing other people as well.” 

The walk through the back of the Lexington courthouse is much longer than the front. In fact, they have to exit through a semi-underground parking facility only used by delivery trucks and the like. The two of them are walking upwards on what is essentially a sloping driveway to where Raylan’s car is parked in the main parking area. Since Tim left his SUV back at his apartment building that morning, he would’ve been forced to take a cab home if Raylan hadn’t come back for him at the end of the day. 

“Like I said before,” Tim says, deciding to pick up the conversation as well. “It don’t matter.” He pauses. “Not that there’s been anybody else,” he adds after a moment. 

It’s true. He knows that when they first hooked up it was for pure stress release. Raylan wasn’t after any kind of emotional attachment and neither was he. A no-strings-attached good fuck sounded ideal to him and there’s no denying that Raylan _is_ a good fuck. Probably the best he's ever had. 

“No one?” Raylan says wonderingly. 

“Get off your high horse,” Tim retorts. “What we had was good. Wasn’t after anything else.” 

Raylan stops walking. “And now?” 

Tim stops walking as well. He shrugs. “It’s different, but it’s still good.” 

A second later, Tim finds himself backed up against the white wall of the concrete driveway, with Raylan leaning over him. 

“It _is_ different,” the cowboy agrees thoughtfully. “It’s . . . exclusive,” he says after a while, using the very word that Tim had been unable to say in the elevator. He holds Tim’s gaze when he adds, “I _can_ be faithful.” 

Tim grins back lazily. “There was never any doubt about that,” he replies, crossing his arms and making himself comfortable against the wall. “You’re all-in or all-out, Raylan. It’s getting you to commit that’s the tricky part.” 

Raylan’s shrug looks cool and casual, but Tim knows it’s carefully calculated. “I’m committed,” he says. 

Tim feels like the cat that’s caught the canary and he’s pretty sure that his grin reflects it too. “So, you’re saying that I’ve got you now?” he confirms, wondering how far he can push Raylan. “Hook, line and sinker?” 

Raylan is so close to him that Tim can inhale the scent of his aftershave mixed with the smell of the worn denim jacket that the other man is wearing. He’s fairly certain that Raylan’s about to kiss him even though they’re out in public and that would be breaking a cardinal rule in Tim’s book. Tim isn’t out of the closet by anybody’s standards. Raylan stops himself at the last moment, stepping back slightly and putting his hands on his hips. 

“Too public?” he says, as if reading Tim’s thoughts.

“Yes,” Tim agrees, even as he’s reaching out and looping his fingers in the front belt loops of Raylan’s jeans, pulling the other man back towards him until their pelvises are touching and he can comfortably wrap his arms around Raylan’s waist. Raylan has no choice but to follow his actions, bracing himself against the wall with his right hand. “But just private enough,” he adds. 

Raylan takes the hint, his left hand cupping the back of Tim’s neck, holding Tim in place as he leans in again to kiss him. Tim returns the kiss, Raylan’s taste now mixing with Raylan’s scent, the heat of the other man’s body bleeding into his own. The kiss is slow and leisurely, comforting and familiar. Tim is drowning in it but he lets himself go. Raylan’s life is nothing but a whirlwind of instability that he’s getting caught in and yet . . . 

He knows that they have this. 

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> All information about the Tueller drill was courtesy of Wikipedia, the one-stop resource shop for writers the world over. 
> 
> _Justified_ belongs to FX, Graham Yost and Elmore Leonard. No offense is intended, no profit is being made.


End file.
